


Assistance to Others

by Code16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Other, f!Sherlock, nonbinary!John, nonbinary!Moriarty, psychologically induced altruism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:31:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple search on Professor Moriarty appeared to suggest a simple enough person. But only a simple search.</p>
<p>Being sold again could be nothing out of the ordinary for the one whose nonexistent last name had once been Holmes. But observation is revealing. And involvement is only logical, if sometimes unforeseen regardless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sheridan

**Author's Note:**

> This has nothing to do with omegaverse - I started it before I was into that and feel attached enough to not want to change it.
> 
> I know that it's standard to not change Sherlock's name when doing f!Sherlock but that doesn't work for me so here I did change it.
> 
> I started this a while ago in response to a prompt. It's changed since that. I recently had an idea that helped me with a block I've had. This doesn't necessarily mean anything, but it did make me want to put it up. So I am. I might end up rewriting, I might end up writing more, but that tends to be unpredictable. 
> 
> I realize not everyone's going to be a fan of the AU addition to Sherlock's psychology. I figure if it's OK to do things like D/s verse, omegaverse, etc for one's kinks it is fine to do one's own thing, even if it is more niche.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "sold by St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and Research Laboratory to Professor Jamie Moriarty"

So, the day had finally come. After the pre-experiment testing, and after the experiment, and after so much post-experiment testing it was utterly ridiculous, since the latter tests showed exactly what the immediate tests had, and after a waiting period to make sure there would be no new effects or side effects or reversals (there weren’t), the hospital had finally decided to sell her. And, more to the mattering-in-reality point, had done so.

That they hadn’t bothered telling her anything about the sale or her new owner or anything was less of a surprise then that she’d gotten the news at all - most of the time here, everyone treated her like a lab animal that could occasionally answer questions, and most of the information she got about anything was her own doing.

Which was, in fact, exactly why she was now making her way up the hall outside one of the offices, and not back in the room where she slept, where the evening guard had turned back before she locked her in.

“So, LCK, I guess this is goodbye.”

“Oh, have you been transferred, Ms. Jackson?” She knew the answer, or course, from the department card which had just been replaced today, but she was looking for information and not a backhand. The guard had grinned.

“Nah, I’m afraid you’re the one that’s gonna be gone - officers’ll be coming for you before the midnight shift is over.” And since the you’ve-been-sold conclusion was obvious from that, she’d waiting for the opening in the patrol pattern she had worked out weeks ago, picked the lock again, and now she was here.

Accessing the computer was easy - this staff member typed in her password without thinking about the watching Omega slave, this one used his son’s middle name, this one wrote theirs on a post-it-note in mirror writing and left it on their desk. And being in a hospital meant that gloves were almost effortlessly available, which advantaged typing considerably over using knuckles rather than fingers. Finding the sale registry was also easy - slave, name: Sheridan, designation: LCK, type: Omega, special notes: Protector, etc etc, sold by St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and Research Laboratory to Professor Jamie Moriarty. Finding information about Jamie Moriarty, however, turned out to be a bit more of a challenge.

A simple search seemed to suggest a simple enough person – Alpha, lives on the family estate, has a doctorate in Mathematics, regularly wins awards and such in the field, occasionally hosts dinner parties with important guests. But comparing their personality and intelligence scores (accessing school databases was child’s play, and while people did change as they grew, an Alpha drive score that high was a near-universal predictor) with their mathematical achievement revealed a shortfall, which meant they were doing something else not in the public view. So most likely either shady government affairs, or crime. That they hadn’t tried to conceal their drive score suggested a desire for attention that occasionally outweighed the demands of secrecy, and indeed she had no trouble finding people who’d written about meeting them, some of them in very unflattering terms. That none of those people had been arrested for sedition suggested crime was more likely, unless they were that rare breed of government figure who could actually show restraint, and their scores, again, suggested otherwise. As did a correlation between people who’d said especially nasty things, and people whose prospects had worsened soon after that due to apparently natural and coincidental causes.

So, a criminal with a lot of underground power and friendships with the wielders of more legitimate power. On a more personal level - Sheridan skimmed through some of the writings - no one commented on how they treated their slaves, because obviously no one cared, but from what she could see, it was very, very doubtful that the answer would be positive.

She briefly considered looking up the bills of sale for some of their other slaves, but her transport did require sleep, and meeting them would tell her more than the bills could anyway. So instead, after returning the computer to the state she had found it in, Sheridan relocked the office door and left.  


	2. Sergeant Donovan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is transportation, and some worldbuilding.

“Before the midnight shift is over” turned out, based on the amount of light outside, to mean around five in the morning, and “officers” turned out to mean exactly one officer, a Sergeant Sally Donovan, who barely spoke as she brought Sheridan out of the hospital, through the streets, and onto a train, stopping only for paperwork as they left St. Bart’s. Actually being outside after so long was propitious - her senses and, drawing from them her mind, could be better exercised, and it had a positive effect on her transport. Sitting on the train, however (on the floor, but not on her knees, at least), was numbingly boring, especially since they were alone in their compartment and Sergeant Donovan had drawn the curtains. So Sheridan had to settle for observing her.

Sergeant Donovan was a free Beta, the model and color of her badge showing that she’d been at her job for about 10 years. She had a lover in one of her coworkers, and had spent the night at his house, now wearing his uniform shirt instead of her own. When she adjusted her collar, the tag visible for a moment underneath revealed additionally that the lover’s name was Anderson and that he probably shared his home - the laundry label was not the type for-hire services used, the label was new, and those who lived alone or only with a wife and children typically did not put them on easily-recognizable clothing. This Anderson was presumably also the supplier and cause of Sally’s reading material- the writing in the book’s margins matched that on the tag, and Sally kept leafing ahead, clearly uninterested. Finally, she looked up from it at Sheridan.

“So, you’re the throw-your-self-in-front-of-a-bullet type?” Sheridan could never understand people’s fondness for that term- the move was unlikely to work, if you did have time to do it there were better things to do in that time, and even if you somehow managed to block a shot, there was nothing to stop a second one. But she did understand the question.

“Yes, I am a Protector.”

“What do you call me?” Sally sounded bored and not angry (neglecting proper address as though by accident was often a useful experiment, if occasionally a hazardous one).

“My apologies, Ms. Donovan.” Sally waved a hand.

“Ah, I don’t even care. You just remember it when you’ve been brought to Mx. Moriarty, because they will.”

“Thank you, Ms. Donovan.” There was silence again for a few minutes while Sally tried to go back to reading, then gave up again.

“So what’s that like, anyway?”

“My greatest desire is to be of assistance to others. Ms. Donovan.” That was from a cartoon she’d watched as a child, one of the ones where everyone recited their one-line identity every episode. She could still remember them all, useless and better-deleted as the information was. _–“I am Alpha Giselle, I lead this team of brave adventurers.” “I am Beta Cain, I do not waver in our path.” “I am Iota Liz, I have a tool for every job.” “I am Omega Alan, I will do what is required.” “I am Protector Skylar, I give my help wherever it is needed.”-_ So dull, and she’d watched it anyway, though Skylar got less screentime than anyone but Alan. Sentiment. A colorful picture of cooperation and mutual benefit she had not seen in reality then or ever. Even the slaves had been happy. (And Skylar’s type had never been made explicit, though she’d been an Iota obviously enough. Many Protectors were). Sally, meanwhile, had apparently never watched enough informative cartoons.

“So if someone came into this car right now, and I tried to shoot them, you’d jump in front of them?” _No, I’d jump at you and take the gun while you were drawing it. And throw it through the window, because I’d be killed for having it. And get a beating and probably worse for assaulting you, even if it was proven you were acting without authorization. And if I didn’t, they’d be dead, and you would be sold into slavery for non-premeditated murder, because that mark on your badge means you’re one of the best shots in your district._

“Yes, Ms. Donovan. If that would assist them.” _Which it wouldn’t, because that’s idiotic._

“Freak,” muttered Sergeant Donovan, and went back to her book, fortuitously choosing to yank open the curtain again first. Sheridan split the rest of the journey between planning preliminary strategies for the new household, observing the route, and deducing as much as she could about the compartment’s previous occupants. The train journey lasted three hours altogether.


	3. Johne W-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sheridan meets someone else.

Compared to Scotland Yard, the Imperial Enforcement building in the town that was the closest to Moriarty’s estate was tiny. But it had the same built-to-be-impressive façade, and the same machines and clerks to do the requisite processing on her collar’s tag, putting in the new information on her owner and place of residence. The clerk (Iota, somewhere between 39 and 42 years of age, an avid rider his spare time) pressed the scanner to the tag when he finished, checking for proper functioning before handing her back off to Sergeant Donovan.

“There’s a car waiting for you downstairs. The driver knows the way.”

And then it was driving, and her first view of Moriarty’s estate, and being handed off first to a free Beta employee, and then to a slave Iota called Mike STF who was obviously the coordinator of the domestics, both of whom treated her like an unexpected and somewhat confusing surprise. This, in turn, did not surprise her at all. To her, the fact that Moriarty had bought a simple domestic with no special skills from a hospital three hours away instead of turning to their local distributor, and then had paid specially to have her delivered right away and not with the standard transport, coupled with their incredibly high curiosity score, meant that they were obviously interested in her personally. To them, she was an unexpectedly acquired new domestic who had been neither needed or anticipated. So of course the seneschal-secretary stared at her after receiving her off of Sally, right before calling Mike, and of course Mike kept looking sidelong at her even as he found her a uniform and then began showing her around.

“And who would you be, anyway?” he asked, finally, curiosity and the desire for his corner of the household to be stable finally overcoming his nervousness at darker suspicions. And since she could give him that stability, at least for now, she did.

“I’m a domestic Omega slave. I was a research subject at St. Bartholomew’s in London” (that would be common information soon enough, no harm in revealing it before her file and gossip did). And success, because Mike did indeed relax- it was widespread enough knowledge that research subjects were sold at very steep discounts, she knew from yesterday’s search that Moriarty frequently visited London, and while the dates involved were utterly wrong for such a scenario he had no way of knowing that. An opportunity purchase, she could see him thinking. Simple enough.

xxx

Mike ended up sending her to dishwashing. Like in many large households, dealing with dining dishes was kept separate from the actual kitchen to minimize interference. The large washer was still running (largest weight of probability, some member of the household stayed up quite late and utilized dishes in this time), which gave her time to familiarize herself with the particular room’s layout and continue an appraisal of the household.

(“I’ll send your pair along,” Mike had said.  “…you did say you were trained, did you?”  
“By experience. I’ve worked in households before.” Slaves were generally sent out to work in pairs for what was considered security, thought clearly this was not too strictly enforced here, or he would have had her wait.)

She'd finished the familiarization and drawn several conclusions about this household's domestics when she heard footsteps approaching the door. Beta. If it was a supervisor and they blamed her for being alone here, that would be annoying.

“Excuse me? I was told I’d find a pair here?” Well. _Slave_ Beta. That was interesting. While Iota and Omega slaves came from slave parents and from families who sold them as well as from convicts, Beta slaves came only from the latter, any children they produced raised free, often in government orphanages. They were, consequently, considerably rarer. She turned.

“That would be me.” The slave Beta in question had stopped a few feet away. By their stance almost certainly military, by their tan deployed until very recently, by the scars on their wrists, Imperial Justice had not been gentle with them (if had not beaten the bearing out of them, apparently). Violent criminals were enslaved to the state’s hard labor, leaving white collar and political for the commercial market. Even without the marks, this one was not white collar. So. Treason. Caught once they’d been sent home or the military would be dealing with them. There’d been a limp in their step, which could have been another Imperial souvenir, but they were standing like they had forgotten about it. Psychosomatic. _Invalided_ home, then. _Very_ interesting.

“Mike said you would show me around here. I’ve been rather rubbish at it, barely any help at all.” So either the other slaves were nervous around the Beta and Mike though a Protector wouldn’t mind, or he was less concerned with a newcomer he wasn’t attached to. Irrelevant.

“Certainly. You’re familiar with a personal household though, I’d assume?” Gentry pulled favors, even from Imperial Justice. 

“Course I am.” Some disdain for gentry - not uncommon, for treason.

“And some with army procedures.”

“Yes, I- how did you-?”

“Alright. I’m new to this household as well, but I can share general knowledge. Name’s Sheridan, by the way.” Getting into the habit of asking for names rather than reading citizen’s cards could take a while.

“Dr. W- Johne. I’m Johne.” They must be used to introducing themselves to patients, though. And _really_ not spent long with Imperial Justice - so, either they knew nothing, they’d told all quickly, or they’d been able to convince interrogators they knew nothing. She might guess the latter. _Extremely_ interesting. And not a pleasant experience anyway, by any means.

She launched into an explanation of the room. They seemed to follow well enough, complete with questions, though,

“Do you always talk this fast?” She’d been almost finished. She grimaced to herself. Still needed work.

“My apologies. Should I repeat something?”

“No, I got it all. You’re very clear. Just - you know, you must have been excellent at tongue-twisters.” Of all things - she _remembered_ those classes, first exercises for speechmaking. She hadn’t thought of it in years. Omegas wouldn’t have had those lessons, though.

“We didn’t learn tongue-twisters.”

“Oh. Well. My apologies-“

“It’s not a problem.” And that was when the washer rang. “Excuse me.” She went to open it, intending to begin a new explanation, then had to pull up short almost immediately. 

“…is there a problem?” She must have been staring at it for a few moments. This was _incredibly_ inconvenient when she was so new, but, work was to be done with the resources at hand. 

“Does someone in this household do chemistry?”

“Excuse me?” She repeated the question.

“Mx. Moriarty does, I think. Why-“ 

“Do you know where this household keeps its cleaning supplies?”

“Yes I do - what is going on?” Explaining would likely be more expedient than not.

“Mx. Moriarty or otherwise, I’d assume they left equipment out in their chambers, a domestic mistook it for dishes and sent it here. Likely empty aside from residue, but that was enough. I don’t imagine there’d be much tolerance for such a mistake and would like to avoid trouble for whatever unfortunate domestic. I can fix it, but I need ingredients. Cleaning supplies, can you direct me?” They didn’t contest her conjecture about mistakes; evidence for its correctness.

“I should come with you. We’ll still look like a pair, then.” Body language, tone - _they’d_ been bored, possibly without knowing it. And seemed cognizant enough of what might be the end result if this went wrong. Aware decision, then.  

“Alright.” She closed the washer again - hopefully no one else would reopen it before they could return, but nothing else to be done. “Let’s go.”


	4. Mr. Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more than a severe anomaly

They’d barely left the kitchen when she heard another set of Beta footsteps coming down the connecting corridor ahead of them. No time to head back without running, which was a worse option by far. They kept walking.

She took in the man who came around the corner as soon as he did so, and might have, for once, ended up doubting her own observation, if it wasn’t continuing right in front of her. Collar, military stance, also almost certainly not white collar. A _second_ treasonous slave Beta - was Moriarty _collecting_ them?

And he was wearing a citizen’s card. 

|Sebastian Moran|

Two treasonous Beta slaves in the same place was a severe anomaly. A slave wearing a citizen’s card was considerably beyond that. Slaves did not bear citizen’s cards. They did not have last names. They did not officially have first names, nor at all unless their owners chose to note them (the hospital had, for her, and it had been her first owner to do so). And yet here he was. There was clearly more to this situation somewhere, and at this point she was quite interested in whatever it was.

He stopped when almost level with them.

“And why are you lot in such a hurry?” As she had made particularly sure of their pace, this was a blatant excuse. Johne shifted.

“She’s showing me cleaning protocols. Though I ought to know them.” And looked right at the taller Beta when they said it, like they still were in the military. One could have thought Imperial officers would have beaten _that_ out of them, if nothing else. It did not take her levels of observation to notice Moran looked about to start that process. 

Slaves did not receive manners of address; citizen’s cards did. For lack of further information, she aimed in the middle.

“No, that’s not correct form at all. My apologies, Mr. Sebastian, they’re an idiot. Johne, watch me.” The same techniques useful for disguise did service in putting on submissive bearing. “Our apologies, Mr. Sebastian, we’re at your service.” He grabbed her by the front of her uniform, which was success insofar as he was no longer about to punch Johne. 

“You address me as Mr. Moran.” _Full_ Beta up-form? What was Moriarty even up to? Tabled, later.

“My apologies, Mr. Moran. I'll remember in the future, Mr. Moran.” He shoved her back, glared at both of them -(perhaps it would have been more optimal to fall rather than balance? Too late, at this point)- but continued down the hall. Scars on his arm where his sleeve had hitched up said he’d been in knife fights and an explosion, severed finger with the marks of Imperial Justice almost certainly meant gun. Nonviolent treason was… unlikely at the least. And the badge continued to say… something. 

“Did you just call me an idiot?” The tremor in their hand had stopped, she noted.

“Did you just stare down a supervisor?” They didn’t correct her term. She’d need to drop a few more, later.

“I guess I did.”

“As did I.” They didn’t try to stare _her_ down though. She idly wondered if that would change if she dropped her assumed body language completely. Not that she would, that would be careless. “Cleaning supplies?”

“Cleaning supplies.” And they also headed down the hall. Sheridan took note of the limp again. She was starting to have an idea about that.


End file.
